


Alarming Levels of MettaFrisk (ON HIATUS)

by LokiLiesmith



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Also no native speaker, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Compliant, Dark, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, MettaFrisk, MettatonxFrisk, NO reader insert, No OCs, Non-Binary Frisk, Other, POV Second Person, Teen Frisk, Too much blood in my caffeine system, dafluff?, not remotely enough MettaFrisk out there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7175453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiLiesmith/pseuds/LokiLiesmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frisk has never meant to take so many innocent lives. Or to destroy the lives of the ones they spared. And, least of all, to fall in love with a bloodthirsty, flamboyant robot. Mettaton x Frisk</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alarming Levels of MettaFrisk (ON HIATUS)

_Takes place during neutral route_

Once upon a time, you have loved to read, devouring a plethora of literature of many different kinds. This is probably the reason why the fitting term immediately comes to mind: _Entity_. At least it's a unbiased sounding label for this… this… _thing_ inside of you.

Toriel's books haven't taught you this word, though. Her books mostly cover snails, and their multifarious uses in housekeeping.

You have murdered Toriel.

Afterwards, you haven't felt like browsing her bookshelves any longer, in hope of them containing more interesting readings. Toriel's dust has been blindingly white. You have let it run through your fingers, fascinated by its texture. After leaving the Ruins, _it_ has loosened the grip on your soul. Only for a few minutes, so _it_ would be able to feast on your pain. _It_ has curled up within your soul like a contentedly purring cat and has watched the ice scrape your knees, and your blunt nails mark your forearms with bloody lines. The only way you have ever been able to express your desperation and grief. Your hands have stayed powdery white for a long time with the remains of the single person you have ever called "mother".

Sans has probably mistaken it for snow, the first time he has encountered you. He has pranked you with a silly whoopee cushion, without realising he is shaking hands with a newly minted killing machine.

He then clumsily seeks out your friendship. He is always there, popping into reality at random corners, a bad pun on his nonexistent lips by default. Sometimes he is wondering whether everyone is having a party at Grillby's without inviting him along, but he never actually catches you slaughtering his people.

There are less and less of them left for you to play with, maybe they have been evacuated. _Too bad_. You have even let some of them escape. Not out of compassion, but because you enjoy deciding over life or death, just as you enjoy their meek gratitude. When you encounter them again, you kill them after all. Squeezing, beating, _cutting_ life out of helplessly trembling bodies has become your addiction. Power is intoxicating. Their begging for mercy is your elixir. You don't know mercy. Mercy is superfluous luxury.

No one has ever granted _you_ mercy.

_You're so yucky, Frisk. Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you!_

_Naughty children must be punished. You know that, do you not, Frisk? Now count with me: One… two… stop crying!_

_Your lunch belongs to me, still don't get it? Now had it over!_

… _You belong to me, too._

_Ugh, stop crying like a girl. You're so disgusting._

_Are you even a boy?_

_Because if you're a girl, you're not looking the part, either._

_Naughty children have to stay in the Secluded Dark Room. You still remember our rules, Frisk?_

_You're a freak, Frisk._

_Their behavioural disorder leads to the assumption of autism. The Secluded Dark Room is indicated as permanent therapy._

_You're retarded, Frisk._

_You're ugly, Frisk._

_Can't talk? Mute or something?_

You are not mute; you prefer to speak only if necessary.

When Papyrus opens his arms for you, and offers you love, spaghetti and guidance, you almost believe him for a moment. In this single, fleeting moment, you feel assurance and hope. You take a small, jerky step towards him. His eye sockets are gleaming with triumph, and then… he falls. You have only a plastic toy knife, but this one blow contains all of your hate. It wipes him from the face of the planet, as if he never existed. Papyrus' naïve faith in you, in your _kindness_ , has nevertheless dug its way into your cold heart, like a stubborn thorn.

Strangely enough, after killing his brother, Sans' and your paths don't cross again for a very long time.

_It's not as if I'm judging you… you dirty brother killer!_

* * *

Monster Kid is very affectionate and nauseatingly happy. He is all the things you have never been allowed to be, so you stand there impassively and simply let it happen, as he slips off the bridge, screaming for help as he goes. He hates you now. _Good_.

As opposed to Papyrus, Undyne gives you a hard fight, literally. Her grief over him is palpable, as well as the pure rage towards you. She still holds onto her fairness. Which is not good for her; her spear she has "lent" you for the battle does its job just right. This time, _it_ is compelled to firmly drive its claws into your soul for you to really take her life. You ram the weapon into her destroyed armour, again and again, right between her breasts.

Undyne stubbornly refuses to die, for many agonizingly slow minutes; apparently, it's imperative that she tell a certain Alphys… something. It seems to be important. Well, at least to her. You are able to downright see _it_ rolling _its_ eyes in (amused) irritation.

* * *

You have imagined this "Alphys" person differently: A fierce warrior, perhaps, brimming over with combativeness and confidence. Someone more… Undyne-like? Instead, Alphys is… _that_. She is of short stature, pudgy, lazy, just a little bit incompetent, and her social phobia is sort of adorable (as opposed to your own).

 _It_ seems entertained by the little yellow scientist. _You_ , on the other side, are simply glad to be allowed to let her live.

It's only later that you come to know you've killed her after all.

You cannot even imagine how it must have felt for Alphys. This knowledge of having lead you through silly puzzles all over Hotland, perfectly unsuspecting of what you've done. Of having wanted to go on an adventure, the two of you, together.

Of having discussed _anime_ with you. You, the cold-blooded murderer of the one woman she has been pining after, her unrequited and only love.

_After everything has been over, Sans has told you on the phone about how Alphys has thrown herself from the highest garbage mountain Waterfall has to offer. Then, he has wished you a painful, slow death._

* * *

Mettaton is the first monster able to earnestly stand up to you. He claims to be one, that is; all you can see is a machine, appearing like a hybrid between a toaster and a calculator.

His unyielding defence seems impenetrable. Seeing as you cannot kill him as easily as you are used to, you are compelled to get to know him, in order to ensure you own survival. You persuade yourself into believing you are studying him so thoroughly out of necessity; you have to figure out proper battle strategies after all.

Mettaton, however, is just as unpredictable as he is invulnerable, and the real reason why you are so embarrassingly eager to meet him again is an entirely different one: No one has ever shown such interest in you. His fascination with you equals your own you hold for him. He likes to torment you, but his lack of fairness spurs you on even more and he… he is… is… flirting with you. Massively. At least you believe he is doing it; you have not the foggiest idea as to how such things work, despite the fact that you sometimes try to avail yourself of your meagre charm.

He declares you beautiful, and next thing you know, he electrocutes you, because you've been acting stupid during his quiz show. Or perhaps because he is simply feeling like it. He lavishes you with cutesy nicknames, then with tasks you can impossibly solve. He promises you cosy cake baking, just the two of you (and the entire Underground behind their television screens), but instead assaults you with a glittery pink chainsaw (MTT brand, of course). He performs love songs for you, with his beautiful, velvety voice - then he proceeds to throw you in the deepest dungeon.

 _Accidentally_.

… Mettaton looks damn fine in a dress. Which is rather astounding, considering his box-shaped body, with a bolt-on unicycle beneath it. Despite these details, he is stepping down the stairs with the grace of a true princess. You stand there, as stiff as a statue, intimidated by the cameras' glare. Your face is as expressionless as ever, Mettaton's exuberant personality entirely outshines your own, boring one. Maybe you should feel ashamed: He's still a metal box.

He is whirling around you, ensnaring you with his pretty words. It's a pity you cannot allow yourself to believe a single one of them…

When you have been a small child, you have downright devoured all of the Harry Potter books. You remember how cool you've felt, sneaking down into the orphanage's library with your pocket lamp (you still have no explanation as to how such "heretical" books have managed to find their way in between deeply religious writings). You also remember certain character types in said books.

You are convinced Mettaton would have qualified as the perfect Slytherin.

After sorting out your feelings, which you usually keep locked up neatly, it hits you like a train with at least one hundred wagons: You are hopelessly in love. With a metal box, wielding chainsaws and the true spirit of a Slytherin.

Actually, why not. The sheer absurdity of your life is still increasable.

_To be continued…_

 


End file.
